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You Are At The Archives for September 2011

It's almost October and while Halloween is over a month away, creepy things are happening in Madison.

Heard singing outside my window on a Tuesday night.
Troubling: I thought I was having an "In your eyes" Lloyd/Diane moment.
Troubling#2: Feeling crestfallen when I realized it was just my drunken neighbors having a karaoke patio party.

Still being completely grossed out by Silence of the Lambs.
Troubling: Finding this in an antique mall.

Midnight on a Friday. New neighbors are having a party. It's loud.
Rant: New freshman class of UW, if you're going to listen to 70s rock, know it don't blow it. AND it's not cute to loudly group sing Bad Romance, that retched Barbie song or anything by ABBA. And please. If you're going to keep me up when I work at 7am, I prefer if you didn't act like you were an extra on a Disney sitcom. I want to hear name calling, trashy fights, a colorful array of bad choices and the next morning, I want to see someone passed out near my car. I was not only tired the next day, but disappointed.

Having a bad day.
Troubling: That frown is turned upside down just by hearing Hall and Oates on the radio.

Now that's good stuff.

While jogging at night, realizing a lot of people leave their blinds open and you can see straight into their house.
Troubling: Making eye contact with someone realizing they should start closing their blinds.

Having a day job.
Troubling: Becoming one of those crotchety old people that grumble about rowdy parties and the future of America's youth.

Ever get the feeling you're at the wrong place at the wrong time? I do, every time I drive into the Wal-mart parking lot (just look at Peopleofwalmart.com).

But seriously, I have been in the wrong place at the wrong time many, many times. Like the time I was robbed of a foot modeling career. Robbed, you say? Yes, my friends, pull up a chair and brace yourself for a tragic story of broken dreams, damaged limbs and the most horrifying of all, cheap pumps.

It was early summer, before the mosquitoes arrived in swarms and the humidity thankfully hadn't had it's protein shake. The college student career had sputtered to a humdrum end and a very similar career had seeped in, unemployment.

The next weeks were filled with hand cramps from filling out job applications and tired, blood shot eyes from scouring career websites. That is until one day a craigslist ad jumps out of the computer screen and with it fancy daydreams of grocery shopping and change for laundry.

Female Foot model wanted.

Pay is cash, same day. Mail me for more info or to apply.

Compensation: $5000

Now I wouldn't say I have attractive feet but they're not disgusting either. I have ten toes, none of which are pointing in weird directions. But more importantly, how hard could it be to be a foot model? I 've considered a lot worst jobs. Like the lengthy time I considered being part of a three night clinical trial for untested medical supplements or the much shorter time I spent considering being an egg donor. So I don't have to swallow unpatented drugs with the possibility of lifelong side effects or have to worry about an "Are you my mommy?" moment? Sign me up.

That night I put aside my unemployment woes and went out with some friends. As I step through the doors and onto the dance floor of a local club, fate snatched the dream of summer leisure right out of my grasp.

It's dark. There are strobe lights. Grinding, gyrating and pose striking are happening. Madonna, Lady Gaga and Ke$ha are crooning. Welcome to Plan B. After getting a drink, the group makes our way to the dance floor. Within minutes a drunk slip of a girl lashes out. As she stumbles around to whatever her drunken mind is hearing, she stomps, in a pair of cheap, patent leather (plastic), platform stilettos onto my right foot. Cheap Heels never realized that her 115 lbs had safely snuffed out my modeling career. Wrong place: Me on a dance floor. Wrong time: Any time after Cheap Heels consumed her second, third or fourth drink.

The next morning I awoke with a swollen green, blue and grayish limb that was once a well proportioned foot.

It swelled up to resemble something Detective Briscoe and hunky Chris Noth would have found in the Hudson River.

Did I go to the doctor? No, because hospitals smell, I don't like needles, and relaying this stupid story seemed embarrassing and kind of pathetic (Obviously I've lowered my standards since then).

That's right, I could be lounging on a beach, slipping a classy cocktail (like a sidecar) and avoiding the calls of Gisele and Heidi because let's face it, my career has a much stronger life line. My manservant would inject the money makers with botox, followed by a rejuvenating honey and crush pearl rub down (clearly I have no idea how models spend their time... but I can't be that far off...). But no. I don't have a manservant and not even the models in a Sears catalog would be jealous of my life.

Instead I'm working at one of the stores in the mall. I guess I should be thankful, usually models end up with some horrible cocaine addiction or married to Charlie Sheen. And being a foot model? That's like being the Assistant to the Manager instead of being the Assistant Manager. Just the thought of being like the lady in this video is horrifying enough to make me reconsider the medical supplement testing. All's well that ends well.